Brothers
by PadawanMage
Summary: Lancelot fell at the Battle of Hadrian's Wall. However, as Merlin and another observer notes at the scene, things are not always what they seem. Crossover with Highlander. Read & Review!


**Title:** "Brothers"

**Spoilers:** None

**Summary:** Lancelot fell at the Battle of Hadrian's Wall. However, as one observer notes at the scene, things are not always what they seem. (Crossover)

**Author's Notes:** I wrote this story after chatting with a friend of mine about another fandom we both like. I'm a little leery about doing crossovers, but this one would not let go. I only hope I wrote it so the reader doesn't quite know which crossover it is till close to the end.

My thanks to Ashley for her beta skills as well as the inspiration for this story.

**Read and Review!

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Arthur stood on the fields of Mount Badon, utterly exhausted from the fight. Cerdic's beaten and bloody body was already turning cold from his killing stroke. He paid it no mind. Smoke and ash wafted slowly in the afternoon winds, bringing with it the telltale scent of blood, fear and death. With the majority of the fighting dying down, and with the remains of the Saxon army in retreat, a new sound could be heard on the battlefield: the cries and screams of the wounded and dying.

Here and there, Woads sifted through all the bodies, trying to find any who were still alive, or who could be helped in time. Occasionally, a knife could be seen flashing: a merciful last stroke to end hours of agony. Any Woad found was tended to in any way possible, any Saxons…were swiftly sent to whatever afterlife they believed in.

Arthur blinked several times from the smoke getting into his eyes. As they adjusted, he saw in the distance a figure sitting on its knees and looking down at someone. The person kneeling had the tattoos and blue skin paint that marked Woads, but he couldn't see whom the person was staring at. He started walking in the direction and then he caught sight of armor glinting in the dull sunlight. Arthur's eyes widened in recognition and he broke into a dead run.

Guinevere, bloodied and overcome, held on to one of Lancelot's hands, standing guard against any who would dare defile the body in front of her. It was the least she could do for the knight who saved her life. Hurried footsteps and the sound of a sword being plunged into the ground broke through her daze. She looked over to see Arthur sink down heavily onto his knees, opposite from her. He looked from her to Lancelot, who wore an expression of such idyllic peace it wasn't hard to imagine the man sleeping. Imagination, however, could not erase the bolt lodged right through the heart of the Sarmation knight.

As gentle as a parent picking up a babe, Arthur cradled Lancelot's head in his lap. He placed a hand on the other's cold cheek, and blinked several times. Shaking his head and scrunching his eyes shut from the inevitable, he threw his head back and screamed. He railed against his God, who could allow something like this to happen. He accused an uncaring world for not taking his life, instead of his closest friend's.

Guinevere sat there, in the heart of that emotional storm. She was about to say something, anything in support when she looked over at the sound of more people approaching. Arthur caught the look, glanced over, and the cold, black pit in his stomach grew larger.

Gawain, Galahad and a beaten-looking Bors trudged over. On Bors' shoulders was the body of Tristan. Limping, he sank to the ground, gently laying his fellow knight on the bloody earth. When the eyes of the new arrivals went to the other prone knight, they all looked at each other in stunned silence.

"My brave knights, I have failed you," Arthur said tearfully, looking from the fallen to the still living. "I neither took you off this island nor shared your fate."

Not a word was spoken in that heartrending moment. Then, a voice strong and authoritative, yet gentle under the circumstances said:

That can never be so, Artorius," Merlin said. Arthur gazed up into the eyes of the leader of the Woads who said, "Every man's fate or destiny is his own and can never be shared."

Merlin looked over at one his lieutenants standing nearby. This one, in particular, he paid especially close attention. An angular face, still covered with blue paint, framed a mane of dark brown hair. Hazel-green eyes, narrowed in thought, looked from Merlin to the fallen knights and back again. An unspoken message passed between them. The warrior leaders' eyes widened slightly. He glanced back down at the scene before him and sighed.

Arthur must never know.

**oOoOoOo**

In the hours since the battle, many rooms in the former Roman garrison were converted to house and treat the wounded. The dead, already separated between friend and foe, were still left out in the field. To prevent the possibility of disease, the dead of the Saxon army were piled unceremoniously together like so much cordwood and set aflame. The dead of lost friends, relatives and loved ones were cleaned, wrapped in cloth from head to toe and prepared for the various burial rights that were their due. With so much to be done, there was no rush since the living were in far more desperate need of help than the dead.

Those that passed on were in no hurry of coming back to life.

Not normally, thought Merlin, as he purposely walked towards the garrison's chapel. On his way he caught sight of his daughter, bandaged herself, helping with the wounded as much as she could. His heart swelled with pride and almost wanted to chide her for not getting any rest herself, but knew that his daughter had inherited too much of her mother's stubbornness to do any good.

Silence greeted him as he slowly entered the dim chapel. He'd caught Arthur leaving so as to prepare for the ceremony for his fallen people: one was to be buried with the knights of years past (as was tradition), the other to be cremated (as per his wishes).

Merlin waited in respectful silence standing over the bodies. It was somewhat ironic that these men had spilled so much of his people's blood, and yet, here he stood watching over them. How the times did change.

A noise from a corner of the chapel caught his attention. A door opened and in walked Merlin's lieutenant, cleaned of all blue paint and dressed in ordinary peasant clothes.

"You'll be leaving us, then?" Merlin asked, eyeing a satchel slung over the man's shoulders.

The man nodded. "I've already spent enough time here." He nodded towards one of the wrapped bodies. "I merely took this as confirmation. Besides," – he ran a hand over one side of his face – "As much as I enjoyed being with you and your people, fighting for your freedom and all, I could've done without the blue paint," he said dryly. His long, angular face darkened slightly, green eyes dimmed in long lost memories.

Merlin, indicating the bier, said, "I assume you have a plan? Else Artorius will be very curious as to why one of the bodies is missing."

The other man grinned and went back outside. In moments he came back carrying a large rolled-up rug, which he unfurled to reveal another body wrapped from head to toe. A switch was made, the rug rolled up again, and taken outside. When the man appeared once again, he looked around to make sure nothing was amiss.

"You're absolutely sure it will be him?" Merlin quietly asked.

"I wasn't until he fell to that Saxon, and even then not until you and I walked up to Arthur," the man replied. Satisfied, he looked again to Merlin and extended an arm.

Merlin seized it in his, squeezing tightly. "Farewell, my friend. I shall miss our talks as well as your wisdom."

"It will be the wisdom you can still impart to me that I will miss, old friend." The man looked up past the entrance to the chapel. "Arthur is destined for great things, Merlin. He will need your counsel, now, more than ever. Believe and trust me when I say, whenever a new nation is built, it is not just strength that will help it move along. If this island, this country, is to be made into a brave, new world, Arthur's task will be that much harder. He will need someone as well to help him during the inevitable dark moments he will experience." The man looked thoughtful and then quietly said, "I've seen the way your daughter looks at him."

Merlin's eyebrows rose slightly. He could sense where this line of reasoning was going. "Marriage?" he said, turning the idea through his head. "To be perfectly honest, I had not thought that far ahead. What with first fighting Rome, then joining with Arthur to fight the Saxons…" The more he thought of it, the more intrigued he became.

"Something to consider, then," the other said, knowing the seed had been planted.

Merlin blinked his musings away. "We will never meet again, will we?"

The man cocked his head slightly. "Me? No. Others like me...?" He shrugged. "Anything is possible. I am glad you did not have me killed when you found out what I was."

"I would like to think I am more open-minded than most," Merlin said, with a touch of wryness. "You had only just joined us before I stumbled upon your fight with that roman soldier years ago. Had anyone else seen what had happened after that legionary's head hit the ground…"

The man nodded. "And I most assuredly would have left at that moment, if you had not been so curious about me, instead of fearful. So, I thank you for keeping my secret and allowing me to stay with your people." He sighed. "But, as with all things, my time here comes to an end. Farewell."

With a final squeeze of Merlin's arm, the man turned and strode out of the chapel, not once looking back.

**oOoOoOo**

Arthur gently slid the torch into the branches and twigs, and stood back, watching as the flames rose and slowly consumed the last remains of his friend. The remaining knights, as well as many people who had fought in the battle, had come to pay their respects. Guinevere stood next to him, watching the curling smoke rise into the sky. Unconsciously, she entwined her hand in Arthur's.

A short distance away, Merlin watched the action and nodded slightly in approval.

**oOoOoOo**

Deep within the country, the last rays of the setting sun bled away from the wintry land. Leaves swirled around here and there in the coming cold of the night. In a small cave near a bluff of a mountain, a small fire burned and snapped from deep within, keeping the immediate area warm. A lone figure, sitting on a rock, occasionally stoked the fire with a long stick. Some feet away lay a covered bundle. The man stopped in mid-stoke as the bundle began to twitch and shudder.

With a gasp, the figure suddenly sat bolt upright, breathing heavily as if having held his breath for far too long. So deep were his breaths that he coughed and heaved. Several moments passed before he could control himself. His eyes darted everywhere within the cave until they settled on the man sitting nearby.

"You look as if you could use some water," the man said quietly. He grabbed a water skin and tossed it at the other's feet.

The other man, very much confused, looked from the skin to the seemingly friendly man sitting before him. Memory quickly came back to him in a torrent of images: a battle, saving someone of great importance, pain…darkness. A hand went up to his chest. Fingers gingerly touched an area near the sternum but there was nothing there but bare skin. He looked around at the stark cave walls around him, felt the slight chill that began to set his teeth on edge. Unbidden, legends came to his mind from his people's beliefs, stories of what happened to those who died…and who you might meet. When he glanced back at the man, he couldn't quite suppress a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Are…are you…Death?" he asked.

The man stopped suddenly stoking the fire. He gazed from the fire to Lancelot, the flames casting his face in an unearthly relief. He threw the stick into the fire.

"That is a far more interesting question than you likely know…and one I'm not quite willing to discuss." He then sighed and smiled tightly. "But know this, knight: there is much you need to know about what has happened, much you need to know about who you are _now_ and, most importantly, much you need to be taught in order to survive." He shrugged. "Besides, I was going to leave the island by myself anyway, and could use the company. A hundred years or so have been enough."

"Who _are_ you?" the man on the ground demanded, completely befuddled.

The other came over and clasped the man's shoulders.

"We are the same, Lancelot. We are brothers!"

**oOoOoOo**

_**Months later…**_

"Hail King Arthur! Hail King Arthur! Hail King Arthur!"

The throng of people, Britons all, cheered and hailed their new king and queen. Unsheathing Excalibur, Arthur held it up to the sun, for the entire world to see: a shining beacon of freedom and liberty.

He looked down to see the last of his knights, Galahad, Gawain and Bors caught up in the moment and saluting him as well. Guinevere's hand rose as well and clasped his, in both symbolic, as well as actual, union. Arthur's mood was tempered a bit by the wish to have one last knight be there before him. Knowing him, thought Arthur, he'd probably be laughing and rolling his eyes at such bombastic ceremony. His eyes wandered above the tops of all arrayed around him and Guinevere, looking past the archers shooting quiver after quiver of flaming arrows. He looked for a moment off in the distance and then blinked.

_No…it couldn't be._

He blinked again, looked, but found nothing there. Surely, it must've been wishful thinking! For a second, he thought he caught sight of two persons on top of horses. One of them, in particular, was short, had bushy black hair…almost looked like….

Arthur shook his head. No, that was impossible. He saw it himself – burned his friend and set his ashes to the winds, as he was asked. It had to be a figment of the imagination.

The King of Britain looked down at his Queen and then to the still joyous crowds. His friend's sacrifice in no small way had made all this possible. Arthur would treasure his memory till his dying days.

**oOoOoOo**

Miles away, with the sounds of the celebration already growing faint behind them, two horseback riders rode down the coast in silence.

Finally one of the riders stirred and said, "He almost caught sight of you, you know."

"I only wanted to see my friends one last time, especially Arthur. At least I know he's moved on and that he's destined for great things," the other said with a touch of melancholy.

The first rider slowed down and then waited until his companion noticed and came to a halt.

"Lancelot," the man started, "you have to understand that all that you knew, all that your life – your _first_ life – ever was, died on that battlefield. You can never return to that life or to your friends."

"And why not? I'd think my friends would be happy to see me up and about," the knight said, harshness tingeing his voice.

"Because they are not ready for that kind of knowledge. Arthur's beliefs, especially in his God, would be sorely tested, not to mention the rest of the knights with their beliefs and people of this island. All would look on you with doubt, suspicion and fear. They would eventually cast you out, or worse, try and kill you. Believe me, Lancelot, I've seen it too many times. You know the beliefs of your own people. Tell me I'm wrong," the man finished.

Lancelot sighed and, after a moment, nodded. How could he possibly explain all that he now knew about what he was to Arthur and the rest? Truth was, he just couldn't. His friends wouldn't see him as one of their own anymore, they would see him as an abomination. There was a part of him that wanted to be part of Arthur's new beginning here on this island. But there was another, far older part that still yearned to see the one thing he'd wanted since coming to this island. Lancelot closed eyes and thought of Sarmatia, with its seas of grass that stretched from horizon to horizon, its sky as big as anyone could imagine.

"Home," he wistfully said, opening his eyes once more. "I would like to see my homeland one more time. To see my family, mother, father, and a sister would mean so much to me. I want to know that they still live. They don't know what happened to me, and I doubt Arthur or the rest will be going there now."

His companion nodded and then, pursing his lips, produced a long, wrapped bundle and threw it to Lancelot, who caught it deftly. He unwrapped it and gaped as he found his dual swords wrapped inside.

"How –?"

"I took the liberty of visiting your 'grave' the night before we came here," the man said. "I made sure to have some fakes made first so no one will be suspicious. I think these will help you far better than the one sword I've tried to teach you with."

Lancelot felt his throat catch as he caressed the polished steel of what someone had once called his 'Twin Demons.' His companion was right: he was far more at ease with these than with a single, clumsy sword. His face darkened. He would definitely need them now, more than ever, what with this 'Game' he'd been taught by this man, and what would be expected of him should he meet another of their kind. His whole life had been made for conflict, first by the Romans, and now by a group of people, scattered all over the world, fighting for this 'Prize' he knew nothing about. He'd told Arthur once that he'd die in a battle of his choosing, and he did…in a manner of speaking.

Fate or whatever powers had different plans for him. From the looks of it, the conflict would not end until his head came away from his neck.

Chuckling mirthlessly, Lancelot slipped both swords into scabbards behind his back. He then glared tiredly at the other man.

"I really hate you…you know that, don't you, Methos?"

The 5000-year-old immortal, expecting no less, smiled.

"Good. Then we are off to a good start."

**-FIN-**

**Author's Post Notes:** I honestly don't know if I'm breaking any canon rules, but with crossovers, you can't be sure. I just thought it would be cool to have Methos live and fight with the Woads around the time of Arthur and his knights and be there to help Lancelot when he turned. Plus, it helps my friend in knowing that, in some way, Lancelot still lives.


End file.
